Yet once more, we plunge down the hill

in a nose dive that rolls into somersault

and somersault

and somersault

until the knoll flattens and 

gravity glues our backs to the forage.

We lay a minute, nestled in the blades,

fragile like a flower is fragile,

laced into the soil with a lark’s head

until plowed over by a tractor.

I was a dreamer, once; when your voice raised

I’d think of fractals and blooming orchids,

life outside the mason jar.

Yet once more, we plunged down the hill.